


The Crab Shack

by Sophia_Bee



Series: Charles and Erik: Man on The Train [8]
Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Charles is clueless, Existential Crisis, Falling In Love, M/M, Protective Erik, Raven is pregnant, Road Trips, Scott is a Good Friend, Scott-Centric, Seaside, Thanksgiving Dinner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-09 23:13:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7820986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophia_Bee/pseuds/Sophia_Bee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even though it was Scott who broke up with Charles all those years ago, he's never really gotten over him. When Charles invites Scott to Thanksgiving, Scott decides he needs to escape, heading north up the coast. He ends up in an off-seasons deserted tourist town where he meets the hairy, bad tempered proprietor of a hole-in-the wall restaurant called The Crab Shack, who turns out to be wiser than Scott ever expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Crab Shack

**Author's Note:**

> I'm further developing the MoTT universe by rounding out Scott a bit. So please enjoy a bit of Scrogan. And there is still plenty of Erik stalking Scott and Charles being clueless. 
> 
> Thanks to **LeafeyLocket** who is not only my beta but my bestie. xoxo
> 
> Thanks to **SomeCoolName** whose comments made me take another look at Man on the Train and inspired me to write more. I am honored to have you as my fan.

“Yes!”

Charles launches himself upwards from the narrow stadium seat as bright graphics flash on the huge monitor that hangs from the ceiling of the arena. The announcer yells that the Knicks have once again scored. Scott winces as Charles raises his hands up in the air, the beer he’s holding sloshing over the rim and onto Scott’s neatly pressed trousers.

 _The things I’ll do for love_ Scott sighs to himself seconds before the ramblings of his brain fully sink in and he quickly mentally corrects them to ‘the things he’ll do for friendship’.

It has been hard to stop loving Charles.

If Scott is honest with himself, it was hard to love Charles as well. For Scott, Charles has always been complicated, with his unrealistic expectations of what Scott really could offer. In the end Charles had become oppressive, leaving Scott craving breathing space. The more space Scott wanted the tighter Charles held on, as if he could sense that whatever they had was slipping away. Ultimately Scott had to make the terrible decision that broke Charles’ heart. He remembers how the day after he’d told Charles that he could not marry him, he had woken up finally feeling free. It would be a fleeting sensation because it wasn’t long after that the regret came crashing down. Regret over all he had lost. By saying “no” to Charles, Scott had lost the way Charles looked at him, lost how it feels when someone loves you beyond all distraction. No one could love another person the way Charles Francis Xavier did.

Although there might be one exception, Scott mused to himself. That exception came in the form of a cantankerous German pain specialist who stalked the hospital halls and had a habit of glaring daggers at Scott anytime he saw him.

If Charles was crazy when he was in love then Erik Lehnsherr was certifiably insane. It seemed that’s what Charles needed - someone even more unhinged than Charles. Ever since Erik’s appearance in his life, Charles had been happier and more content than Scott had ever seen. This made the regret worse. Scott wished he could stop feeling jealous of what Charles had found with Erik.

It had been hard at first. All Charles’ happiness did was sharpen Scott’s loss. The night he’d first met Erik is burned into his brain. He remembers standing over their table, his eyes unable to look away from the way Erik’s fingers intertwined with Charles’, jealousy hitting Scott like a freight train. Scott had been living with the regret of saying “no” to Charles’ proposal for months by that time. It was the first time he actually wanted Charles, with all his neuroticism and ridiculous notions of love, back.

“Oh, sorry, Scotty.”

Charles voice jerks Scott back to the present. He feels that slight twinge of sadness that comes every time Charles uses that nickname, an intimacy from their previous relationship that Charles can’t seem to let go of. Scott turns to see Charles glancing at the beer he’d spilled and making a bit of a grimace.

“I have some napkins.”

“No. It’s okay.” Scott forces his attention back to the game. This was something he and Charles had always enjoyed and it turned out that Erik really had no clue when it came to basketball. After Scott had warded off a ridiculous near-break up, he and Charles had started going to games regularly and Scott had started to look forward to their semi-regular get-togethers.

He did not look forward to Erik.

Charles had promised that his husband would behave himself. Scott had his doubts. The first game they went to he’d spent a good deal of time scanning the seats to make sure the surly German wasn’t lurking somewhere. Charles had promised him he’d handle Erik. That didn’t stop Erik from loudly suggesting in the hospital hallway that Charles become a fan of a more appropriate sport, such as fencing, then bragging about his own skill with the foil while directing a threatening grin towards Scott. Scott had shuddered at the thought of Erik Lehnsherr with any type of sharp, pointy object in his hand.

Around the third game Erik seemed to calm down. Scott no longer scanned the seats. Charles seemed impervious to it all, telling Scott with a grin that Erik was truly harmless. Scott wasn’t sure he agreed. Now Erik’s interference was limited to his insistence on picking up Charles in their compact black Fiat. After every game they would walk out of the stadium to find Erik parked in the loading zone, looking a bit scraggly and entirely threatening, asking Scott if he’d enjoyed his husband. Scott never truly knew how to answer so he’d just flash Erik a wan smile and wonder if his friendship with Charles was worth his life.

Charles is leaning forward in his seat now, staring intently as he watches the players make their way down the court.

“Come on....come on….”

Scott smiles as he glances sideways at his ex-lover. It’s just like Charles to be entirely engrossed in a game, his whole body on alert, his fists clenched. When he gives himself, he gives himself fully, whether it's to Erik or to the Knicks. That was why when Scott heard Erik was living in Westchester he knew he had to do something. Scott remembers feeling nervous as he stood outside Charles’ door, feeling a deep ache at how saddeningly familiar the townhouse felt, and how part of him wished he were there under different circumstances, no matter how much of a mistake he knew that would be. Still, despite Lehnsherr’s shortcomings, it was seeing him with Charles that made it very clear to Scott that no matter his regret, he and Charles were simply never meant to be. He was a stop for Charles, a brief, if painful distraction on his way to his destiny. That was why Scott went there. Because no matter how much he hated Erik Lehnsherr, he loved Charles Xavier ten times more, and Charles without Erik was borderline unbearable. This Charles, the one who has once again launched himself out of his seat, beer-in-hand, but this time to yell something truly foul at the referee, is the one Scott wants around. If that meant he had to bring those two idiots back together, so be it.

“Jesus Christ, Xavier,” Scott spits out as another splash of beer lands on his trousers. “I haven’t even had one and I’m going to smell like a brewery by the time we head home.”

Charles looks over at Scott and grins sheepishly.

“Great game.”

Scott rolls his eyes at Charles. As if that excuses the beer bath he’s given Scott. The buzzer sounds in the arena and the players stop and mill around the court briefly then head to their respective locker rooms. All around them people start to shift and stand, but Charles stays seated. He sinks back down into his seat, legs splayed, and drains the rest of his beer, then looks over at Scott with an impish grin.

“There. No more worries. Do you want one?”

Scott shakes his head. “Shift after the game.”

“You doing nights still?”

“Just until Wagner gets back from Costa Rica. Asshole is down there claiming to save the world but I think he’s just working on his tan.”

“Yeah. Total asshole,” Charles mutters, rolling his eyes. “You’re just jealous you didn’t think of it first.” He raises his now empty cup and absently stares into it as if he wishes the beer that he’s been assaulting Scott with wasn’t gone then bends and sets the cup on the ground. 

“Been rough lately,” Charles says. “The hospital. The other day I had no break, no lunch. Erik…” There is a small hitch in Charles’ voice, a hesitation that is always there when Charles mentions his husband’s name around Scott. “Erik said he’s been dealing with some pretty crazy drug users on the floors. Is it a full moon, or something?”

“Full moon?” Scott asks, arching an eyebrow and quirking his mouth a little in amusement. “You nurses and your superstitions. I think some bad heroin on the streets is bringing people in. And I swear, this year trauma season didn’t end with summer. Now with the holidays coming…”

“Holidays!” Charles exclaims, interrupting Scott. “That reminds me. Are you working Thanksgiving? Alex actually gave me it off this year.”

Scott’s mouth feels dry. He knows what’s coming.

“Because Sharon is throwing some big ridiculous catered dinner and Angel is coming, Raven and Hank will be there….”

Scott swallows. The last thing he wants is to sit at the enormous Xavier dining table wondering if Erik has once again ignored his shellfish allergy and try to ignore the barbed comments directed at him by Sharon. There is nothing worse he can think of than Thanksgiving with the overly happy Lehnsherr-Xavier-Darkholme-McCoy clan.

“How is Raven?” Scott says smoothly. “How far along now?” He watches as Charles’ face lights up, engulfed by a huge smile. Charles’ adoration of his little sister has never wavered.

“About five months!”

“I expect Erik is excited to be an uncle.”

Just like that Thanksgiving is forgotten and Scott is being regaled with a tale of how ridiculous Erik is that involves cloth diapering services and crib testing. Scott feels the small creep of relief that he’s avoided the awkwardness of telling Charles he can’t join him.

“I told him he did not need to sleep in the crib to make sure it’s adequate and he really didn’t need to bend me over…”

Charles’ voice fades as Scott feels his face grow hot.

“...it.” Charles finishes meekly. “Oh god, too much. I’m so sorry.”

“S’okay,” Scott mumbles, feeling awkward. It’s one thing to catch a game with your ex, it’s another to hear about his sex life, especially when it involves a crib.

It’s not like Scott doesn’t know about Charles and Erik’s sex life. Erik has made sure Scott has heard plenty. It had gotten so bad Scott had finally cornered Erik one day and explained he was well aware that Erik and Charles were having sex. Erik’s response was to grin and say, “Lots of sex.” Scott had rolled his eyes and huffed with exasperation. What else could he do?. Later that day Scott had run into Charles as he was transporting a patient and taken the opportunity to inform him that his husband was borderline psychotic. When Charles’ response was to ask if this was about his ass, Scott decided those two truly did deserve each other. Things with Erik had been better after that but he still had an annoying habit of talking loudly about his HUSBAND the moment Scott appeared.

“So, Thanksgiving?”

Scott blinks. It seems that Charles isn’t that distractible after all.

“I don’t know...,” Scott starts, feeling awkward. Surely Charles can see what a bad idea this is.

“You’ll be alone.”

“I’ll go to Jean’s.” Scott says quickly, the lie slipping off his tongue easily. Charles smiles at Jean’s name.

“Good. I’d hate for you to be alone.”

Scott hates how easily Charles believes his lies. It just reminds him of how he’d believed in their relationship while Scott saw it crumbling around them.

“Jean. Yeah. That will be fun.”

Dr. Jean Grey is a psychologist Scott had dated briefly after Charles. She was nice, the sex was good, but it hadn’t take Scott long to realize he wasn’t really over Charles. Jean confronted him, and they’d been friends ever since. He knows she would have him over in a second if he asked. Scott won’t ask. He just wants to be alone.

A loud buzzer sounds. The music that’s been blaring in the arena starts to fade and the announcer's voice booms announcing the second half. Charles turns his attention back to the game and away from Scott’s holiday plans. Scott heaves a sigh of relief as Charles leaps from his seat once again.

It’s a good game. Scott sees about half of it. He’s too consumed with the invite to Thanksgiving. It seems Charles is ready to slot Scott back into his life without a second thought and this has made Scott realize that he truly isn’t. He’ll call Jean that night when he can’t sleep and ask her why things are like this. She’s the head doctor after all, can’t she tell him? It’s not like he and Charles ever had a future anyway. Scott would be the first to admit that. So why can't he let him go? Why can’t he move on?

They walk out of the arena, Charles chatting excitedly about the game, certain players, and apologizing for the state of Scott’s trousers. As usual Erik is waiting in the loading zone, leaning against the side of the Fiat, glowering at Scott.

“Erik,” Scott says politely, his voice cool.

“Summers.” Erik practically growls back just before pulling Charles in for a passionate kiss. Scott rolls his eyes and waits for the display to be over. Charles finally breaks away but stays nestled in his husband's arms looking disgustingly happy. Scott briefly thinks he should have just let these two idiots break up and spared everyone around them a constant toothache.

“See you at the next game,” Charles says.

“Yeah,” Scott answers more enthusiastically than he feels. He turns away, catching Erik bending to kiss Charles once again out of the corner of his eye.

“Oh, Scotty!”

Charles’ voice stops Scott and he turns to look at the happy couple.

“Don’t forget about Thanksgiving. We’d love to have you!”

“We would?” Erik growls, sounding surprised.

“Yes!” Charles says, glaring at his husband.

Scott flashes Charles and Erik a genuine smile.

“Sure. I’ll get back to you.”

Scott turns and walks away. Charles is kind but there is no way in hell Scott will be heading to fucking Westchester for the holidays.

Two days later Scott decides he needs to get the hell out of town. It’s a week before Thanksgiving, his shifts have been brutal and he can’t shake this feeling of melancholy that plagues him.

“Holidays are hard,” Jean says into Scott’s Bluetooth earpiece as he pounds away on the treadmill, sweat beading its way down his temple.

“It’s been what, three years now? I rejected him, Jean. Me! It was the right thing to do. Why can’t I let him go?”

“I could give you my professional opinion.”

Scott speeds up the treadmill. He stares out the floor to ceiling windows, down at the sparkling skyline of the city at night.

“But as your friend, I just think you need to find someone to love. You need your own Erik.”

Scott rolls his eyes. He can’t imagine how suffocating Erik would be. One hundred times worse than dating Charles. He huffs out a laugh.

“I don’t think so,” Scott rasps, getting a little short of breathe from the increased pace.

“No,” Jean laughs. “Oh god, no. The only person who needs Erik is Charles. I mean you need to find someone who fits you like Erik fits Charles.”

Scott feels the mild ache of regret that often comes along with Jean’s brilliance. He cannot explain why she is not his Erik. He also thinks maybe keeping all of his exes as friends may not be the best idea. Maybe that’s what he needs to do - leave them all behind and start all over again. Like in the Bermuda Triangle. He might have better luck there.

“It’s not like I haven’t tried. Case in point.”

Jean laughs. It’s true. Scott has fucked around, he dated Jean, he’s put up a profile on a dating site. Still, no one is right. Nobody clicks. He’s left with one ex who serves as his confidante and another who serves as a constant reminder of what he could have had.

“You know, you and Charles would have been a disaster. I know it’s hard to see that but the Charles that you feel you missed out on, that was never your Charles. He’s Erik’s. When you find your person, Charles will be just another friend, not a constant reminder of what you think you might have had.”

_Maybe._

It’s hard to love someone who is all wrong for you and Scott can’t imagine not loving Charles, but what Jean is saying sounds good. To truly be just friends.

“I need to get out of here,” Scott says, turning up the treadmill another notch.

“Not another cockamamy idea. The last time you had one of those you ended up leaving that sweet gig in Westchester.”

“You know, he invited me to Thanksgiving.”

“Jesus fucking Christ. I can’t even imagine how horrible that would be. You didn’t say yes, did you?”

“I didn’t say ‘no’.”

“Shit.”

“I don’t mean any big changes, Jean.” Scott pauses to grab a swig of water then continues. “I just need to clear my head. Get some perspective. I feel like I’m going crazy half the time, and I’m tired. Really tired. I know what’s right here but for some reason I can’t seem to do it.”

Scott doesn’t say more but he knows that Jean is aware of what his choices are. Go on, or walk away. He doesn’t want to walk away from Charles. Not now, when they’ve become friends, but it seems that most of the healing has been on Charles’ side and Scott’s starting to feel it’s a bit unfair.

“You’ll do what’s right,” Jean says, “You always do. At least what you think is right, you asshole, even if everyone one around you thinks differently.”

Jean tells Scott she needs to go and he obviously needs to finish his workout. Scott pulls off his shirt to reveal a well sculpted body and briefly wonders if he’s gotten too old for a hot body to be enough. He quietly blames Charles and Erik. If he’d never seen what love could truly look like, maybe meaningless sex and short-lived relationships could be enough. It’s not. Jean is right. He needs to find his Erik.

Three days and one rental car later, Scott Summers is driving up the coast. He leaves the city behind until it is only a slight glow on the darkening horizon. He made the necessary arrangements at work, guilting a very tan Wagner into covering for him. He owes him for three weeks of night shift anyway. Scott’s not even sure where he’s going but he knows that he needs to get away. It’s the time of the year just after busloads of geriatric citizens take to the roadways to ooooh and awwwww at the bright colors of the trees, but just before the snow blankets the ground and people trudge their way through ice and slush. The colors are fading, the trees are almost bare but not quite, and the further Scott gets from the city he can smell a crispness in the air along with the faint scent of woodsmoke drifting in the open windows of the car.

He drives for a good few hours the first day, until he thinks he should probably stop and get some rest or he’ll be in some random rural ER after he crashes his car. Scott glances over at the small pile of fast food wrappers that have built up on the floor of the passenger seat and thinks it would be nice to find a place that offers a decent breakfast. Surprisingly enough, the seedy-looking motel with the pink flashing neon sign by the side of the road that Scott finally pulls into does offer a decent breakfast as well as a mostly comfortable bed. After a good night’s sleep and a hearty meal, Scott gets into his car and starts to drive again. The highway winds northward and he crosses from Vermont to New Hampshire. It’s not until Scott reaches Maine that he finally stops.

There’s really nothing about Bar Harbor that begs Scott to stop there. It’s a typical picturesque town on the Maine Coast, full of independent bookstores, ice cream parlors and antique shops. It’s the kind of place that would be bustling with people in the summer, wandering its quaint main street, eating seafood at one of the restaurants that brag that it’s fresh from the boats that line the docks. This time of year the lights in the shops are dark, and signs on the windows tell visitors to move along. The town is closed for the season. Scott would have been happy to move along as well except his stomach is growling and the last thing he wanted wants is another tepid burger from another national fast-food joint. He parks his rental car and slides out of it, stretching a bit, feeling his muscles protest.

Finding a bite to eat proves quite easy. It’s a simple process of elimination: closed, closed, closed, open. The one place that’s open is a dilapidated hut at the end of the pier, the kind of place Scott would turn his nose up at. La Spiga was more his speed but Charles and Erik had stolen it from him. It appears The Crab Shack is the best Bar Harbor can offer. Scott pushes through the door and a bell tinkles, announcing his arrival. It’s small, consisting of a counter and one booth that appears to have been rescued from a roadside burger stand of yesteryear. The booth’s orange seats and chipped Formica table have seen better days. The whole place is lit a bit too brightly, as if to ward off the impending gloom of the fast approaching short winter days. The windows are streaked with condensation. Much to Scott’s consternation, counter is deserted.

“Hello?” Scott say hesitantly.

“Moment, bub,” a voice calls from what Scott assumes is the kitchen. Scott looks around and decides that he’ll perch on the edge of the booth seat. Loud clanging noises come from the kitchen area followed by several colorful profanities. Scott winces and wonders how a man who curses like a sailor stays in business. Maybe because nothing else is open, Scott thinks wryly. After what seems like a long time, the man finally emerges, holding a bowl in one hand, wiping the other on a white apron tied around his waist. He’s not tall, but very muscular - maybe better described as swarthy. He has dark, wild hair and a snarl on his face. Clenched between his teeth is an unlit cigar. The man walks around the counter and comes up to the table where Scott is sitting. With absolutely no ceremony, he clunks the bowl down on the table. Scott glances at it to see a full, steaming bowl of clam chowder. He looks back at the man.

“Here.” the man grunts, sounding annoyed.

“I didn’t order this.”

The man frowns then looks at Scott like he’s speaking in another language.

“Why did you come here, then?” He wipes his other hand on his apron, and Scott can see that it’s quite soiled.

“To eat?” Scott answers, hesitantly.

“So, there’s your chowder. That’s what people come here for. The chowder.”

Scott frowns as he looks up at the man standing in front of him.

“It’s called The Crab Shack.”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe I wanted crab.”

“Don’t have crab. Just chowder. Listen bub, if you don’t want it…”

Scott’s stomach growls. The chowder smells good.

“No. It’s just...I...well, nevermind.”

Scott picks up the spoon that appeared with the bowl of chowder. He takes a bite. It’s creamy with the perfect amount of butter and spices. He glances back at the man, who has not moved from where he’s been standing.

“It’s good,” Scott says, taking another spoonful. The man frowns, as if Scott shouldn’t expect anything different.

“Logan,” the man says. Scott blinks at the sudden announcement.

“What?”

“Logan. I’m Logan.”

“Oh. Scott.”

Scott puts out his hand and Logan grips it firmly then lets it go. He turns and heads back into the kitchen from where several more crashes, clangs and curses emerge. A few minutes later Scott finds a plate being slammed down on his table.

“Bread,” Logan grunts. Scott refrains from observing that the surly man has stated the obvious.

“Thanks.”

Logan disappears back into the kitchen. Scott takes another bite of the chowder. It is indeed tasty. He dips the bread in. It holds up to the thick concoction nicely. Scott finishes the bowl of chowder along with the bread. He pushes the bowl aside and stands up, stretching a little. Logan is now behind the counter, wiping it with a dingy rag.

“Good enough for your city tastes, Slim?”

_Slim._

Scott is taken aback at the aggressive tone from the furry proprietor of the Crab Shack. Logan glances up at him and levels a glare, as if he knows his type and he has nothing good to say. Scott tries not to let his mouth fall open at this stranger’s rudeness. Logan stares at him, and their eyes lock in challenge. Normally Scott would offer a biting reply then turn and leave this man behind, an unpleasant memory or a story to be laughed about over cocktails. That’s not what happens. As they stare at each other Scott sees something, a small glimmer of sadness behind the anger of that fierce, almost animal stare. He knows what that is. It’s loss. It’s the same loss he’s been grappling with. Suddenly Scott’s heart slows, he takes in a deep shaking breath.

“Yes,” Scott answers. “It’s good enough.”

Logan’s bravado deflates with Scott’s words. He pushes the rag around the counter a few more times.

“Good.”

“What do I owe you?”

Logan glances away from Scott then throws the rag on the floor. “Nothing,” he mutters, this time not meeting Scott’s gaze. “On the house, bub.”

Scott means to leave Bar Harbor. He really should. During tourist season it must be full of lights and people, but this time of year, just on the cusp of the seasons, it’s shuttered and dreary, its inhabitants fleeing south for the winter or heading out onto the gray and stormy ocean hoping for a meager catch of the fish. Still, it’s late after he walks out of the Crab Shack and suddenly he feels the droop of weariness. He guides his rental car to an average-looking motel on the edge of town where he rents an average-looking room. Scott falls back onto the bed and as he drifts off to sleep the last thing he sees is that slightly haunted look on Logan’s face. Scott brushes it away, turns onto his side and sinks into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Logan might have turned into a distant memory except the next morning Scott wakes hungry and the tepid plastic-wrapped pastries the motel offers aren’t an adequate enough breakfast. He showers and shaves, leaving his skin cool and smooth, then puts on a crisp pair of jeans and a black turtleneck. Scott heads back into town to find some breakfast. It turns out that the grumpy proprietor of the Crab Shack might be the only game in town, so Scott finds himself once again sitting in the orange booth across from the counter as Logan stares at him.

“I expect you still don’t have crab,” Scott says.

“We have crab, Slim,” Logan answers, chomping on a cigar. Scott rolls his eyes. Of course.

“Crab omelette?”

Fifteen minutes later Logan slams down a plate with a huge crab omelette and two cups of coffee in chipped white mugs on the table in front of Scott. Before Scott can say anything, Logan is sliding into the seat across from him. He picks up one of the mugs and takes a drink, ignoring the way Scott gapes at him.

“Whatcha runnin’ from, Slim?”

Scott winces at the nickname he seems to have acquired.

“Who says I’m running from anything?”

Logan laughs, a wheezing kind of chuckle from someone who smokes too much and drinks too much. Whiskey, Scott thinks. He strikes him as a whiskey kind of man.

“You’re pretty and all that, a real city boy, but you’re runnin’ from somethin’. I know because I pretty much spent my life runnin’ from everyone and everything. I know the look, Slim. Drifting through this town off season, tight lipped, tight assed.”

Scott frowns. His first instinct to to snap back that it’s none of this man’s business, but there is something in the way Logan is looking at him, a sort of empathy that cuts down to Scott’s very bones.

“My ex,” Scott sighs, staring down as he stabs his fork into his omelette. He looks back at Logan. “What are you running from?”

Logan’s eyes cloud a little and suddenly he seems very old to Scott, his face washed over with weariness.

“The world, Slim. I’m runnin’ from the world.”

“Do you ever want to stop?”

“I’ve stopped here, haven’t I?”

Scott is quiet for a long moment. He knows nothing about this man, the one who snarls behind the counter of a seafood shack on the coast of Maine. Logan takes another drink of coffee. Scott finally manages a bite of omelette. It’s fluffy and delicious. He takes another bite. He thinks about what Logan said about running and realizes that he hasn’t stopped. Even when he’s home, he feels like he’s always running. Running away from Charles, away from his feelings. LITERALLY running away from Erik when he sees him in the hallway. Logan has stopped running. Scott wants to stop too. Scott thinks for another long moment, weighing carefully how much he wants to tell the man sitting across from him, cradling his coffee in big, hairy hands. His breath hitches a bit in his throat. His heart pounds. Scott decides to take the plunge, to tell this stranger the truth.

“I loved him,” Scott says, setting his fork down on the plate. He watches Logan’s face carefully to see how the revelation that Scott isn’t straight lands with the other man. Logan barely blinks at the revelation. Scott takes in a deep breath and continues.

“I don’t think I realized how much. He asked me to marry him, you know. And we would have been all kinds of bad, but despite that, I loved him and I’m not over him.”

Scott pictures Charles and his throat tightens at everything he’s lost. For the first time Scott starts to understand that he’s never let himself mourn what losing Charles truly meant.

“He’s married now, to a beast of a man. I mean, he’s a good man, and good for Charles, but he clearly hates me. I guess he should, but….”

Scott trails off. He picks up his fork and stabs it into the omelette one more time. He lifts his eyes to Logan again.

“He’s happy. I should be happy for him. He was always too much for me - clingy, unrealistic. But I can’t let him go and it’s causing me problems.”

Most people would reach out and put a reassuring hand on Scott’s arm, look at him with sympathetic eyes and tell him that it would be okay. Logan does none of that. He just watches Scott with careful eyes, letting the silence stretch between them. Scott starts to feel awkward and he wonders if he chose the wrong person to bare his soul to.

“Life's a bitch, Slim,” Logan finally says with a shrug and Scott frowns a little. That’s what he gets? Life’s a bitch? He half expects Logan to add on, ‘and then you die’ but what he says next takes Scott entirely by surprise.

“This Charlie fella. He sounds like a real ass.”

Scott half smiles. Charles would HATE to be called ‘Charlie’. He thinks about what Logan says. Charles WAS an ass. He was self-centered and neurotic. He only thought about what he wanted when he’d asked Scott to marry him, having no clue if Scott was on board or not. Maybe if they’d dated longer, they would have both figured it out. Maybe they would have broken up or maybe they would have ended up married in the end, but Charles never bothered to find out. He was idealistic and jumped into the idea of marrying Scott without any thought. He was an ass. Scott’s smile starts to spread across his face. He shakes his head a little.

“Yeah.”

Logan nods. Scott takes another bite of his food. He glances at Logan and finds the other man is staring at him. Scott smiles again. It’s not therapy he needed. He just needed some hairy as fuck asshole in Maine to tell him the truth.

Scott never leaves Bar Harbor. He won’t admit it readily but it’s because of a certain surely restaurant owner. Not even a restaurant, a hole-in-the wall. A man of few words, many profanities and an understanding of things that touches something deep inside Scott. He settles into the same bland motel and spends his days sitting in the Crab Shack keeping Logan company. Sometimes they talk. Often they don’t. Customers trickle in. Scott helps, serving up bowls of chowder, wiping the counter, telling confounded patrons that despite the sign, they often don’t have crab.

At one point Jean texts him.

_-How's it going?_

Scott texts back:

_-Found what I was looking for._

_-Your Erik?_

Scott blushes. He thinks about Logan. He’s not big but strong and swarthy, and Scott realizes that he’s attractive. Maybe he’s not quite Scott’s type, but maybe what he needs to do is stop going for a certain type. Then again, he has no idea if Logan likes men, so no matter what he’s found, it may not matter anyway. Scott texts back.

_-I have no idea._

Scott’s last day in Bar Harbor arrives. He needs to get back - to the city, to his job, to endless Charles and Erik. Scott puts his bags into the rental car and heads to the Crab Shack for breakfast and to say goodbye to his friend. _Friend_ Scott marvels at the word. He never imagined that is where this trip would leave him.

Logan brightens when Scott pushes through the door.

“Coffee, Slim?”

Scott smiles at Logan’s familiar tone.

“I’m on the road today. Heading home.”

Logan’s smile fades a little.

“Oh.”

“Came to say goodbye.”

Scott slides into the now familiar orange booth, his knees bumping against the pole in the center. Logan comes over with a mug of coffee in his hand and sets it down on the table with a thunk. It’s exactly how Scott likes it - cream, no sugar. Logan doesn’t move, standing next to Scott, shifting uneasily. Scott frowns, not quite sure what’s happening. He reaches for the mug, takes a drink, then sets it back down.

“You make the best coffee…”

“I gotta do this bub,” Logan growls, ignoring Scott’s words. Scott looks up at him quizzically, not quite sure what Logan is trying to say. Then, without warning, Logan reaches out, cups Scott’s face in his large palm, leans over and kisses him.

_What the fuck?_

Logan’s lips move against Scott’s, at first a quick press, then another more insistent touch.

_Oh_

Scott kisses him back, opening up his mouth a little, letting out a small moan.

_This is good_

Logan pulls back and Scott stares up at him. Logan stares back for a long moment and Scott is reminded of the first time he met him, how their gazes had locked in anger. Now they lock together for an entirely different reason.

“Okay,” Scott whispers, feeling hot and shaky.

“Yeah,” Logan says and Scott watches a slight flush climb up his cheeks. It’s a strange, sweet moment from a man who is so rough-and-tumble-looking. Logan turns and heads back towards the counter. Scott’s thoughts are jumbled, disorganized, and he’s not sure anyone has ever affected him like this. Finally he opens his mouth and manages to breathlessly rasp out Logan’s name.

“Yeah Slim?” Logan says, turning back to Scott.

It’s crazy. Insane. It will never work. Scott does it anyway, because none of this feels sane but it all feels good.

“I...I need a date for Thanksgiving. Would you...I mean, it’s pretty far to come, and short notice, but would you come with me?”

Logan considers Scott for another long moment, and Scott ponders how their relationship…

_For fuck’s sake, relationship_

...contains so many silences.

“Yeah,” Logan grunts.

Scott’s heart soars.

 

* * *

 

Logan cleans up nicely. Scott glances over at his combed hair and his neatly pressed flannel shirt. Maybe it’s not quite the look the men in the city go for, but it’s Logan, and Scott is grateful for him. He reaches out and takes Logan’s hand in his, marveling at its size and strength, grateful for how Logan squeezes his hand back.

“Here we go.”

They walk up the long driveway and Scott thinks that the last time he was here Charles was giddy with love and Sharon spent the entire time insulting him. How things have changed.

Logan had come into town a day ago. It had been awkward at first, despite all the emails they’d sent back and forth. All it had taken was Logan letting out a deep growl and pushing Scott against the floor to ceiling window of his apartment and ravishing his mouth, for Scott to remember exactly how good this man felt. Funnily enough, they hadn’t actually fucked yet. Instead they had stayed in, Scott coming home from his shift to find sports on television and cioppino on the stove. It was strangely domestic and very nice. Jean had teased him over the phone that night as he worked out on the treadmill that he had not just found his Erik, he’d found himself a husband.

They walk hand in hand towards the massive doors of the Westchester mansion, Logan with a heavy bag slung over one arm. It contains containers of his chowder. Scott had told him that it wasn’t potluck. He was sure Sharon would turn this into a ridiculously overdone event, catered, with too much food and always too much booze.

“Gotta have chowder on Thanksgiving and nobody makes chowder as good as mine,” Logan had growled. Scott hadn’t bothered to argue further.

Scott discovered Logan is Canadian. Born in the wilds, he told Scott over beers. Scott told Logan about his stepfather and how he’d abused him. He’d never told anyone that. Not Jean. Not even Charles. Logan had called him a ‘real ass’ too. Then he’d growled, ‘Summers, you seem to have a way of attracting assholes.’. This had made Scott laugh.

Charles opens the door of the mansion. Of course Charles opens the door. Scott takes him in. Jeans, T-shirt, hair a little long, a bit of a scruffy beard. Hot. Compact. Normally seeing Charles would bring on a pang of regret. This time it brings nothing. Scott smiles.

“Scotty!” Charles exclaims. Scott hears Logan mutter ‘Scotty?’ under his breath. He feels his hand gripped even tighter.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” Scott says, marveling at how he now feels nothing. NOTHING! He sees Charles glance at Logan and frowns a little. His eyes go to their clasped hands. Scott smiles grows wider. “Oh, this is Logan. Logan, meet Charles.”

Logan releases Scott’s hand and extends it to Charles.

“Charlie,” Logan practically growls.

“Charles,” Charles corrects, a look of consternation crossing his face.

“Sure.”

Scott almost laughs aloud.

“Scott,” a familiar voice snarls. Scott looks beyond Charles to see Erik. Of course. There’s no chance Dr. Lehnsherr would let his husband greet his ex without doing some quite typical borderline threatening version of lurking.

“Erik, this is Logan,” Charles says, his voice sounding tight. Scott feels an another thrill. “Scotty’s date. Logan, my husband, Erik.”

Charles put the emphasis on the word ‘husband’. Erik’s face lights up at Logan’s name. He leaps forward and grasps Logan’s hand.

“Wonderful to meet you, Logan.”

Scott can no longer contain his eye roll. Logan glances over at Scott and smirks.

Dinner is almost magical. Everyone is thrilled to meet Logan. Raven rubs her belly and Hank looks at her with more adoration than should be humanly possible. Logan and Erik end up engrossed in conversation about fly fishing in the Canadian wilderness, Erik hanging on Logan's every word. Every once in awhile Logan catches Scott's eyes and gives him a surprisingly soft smile. Logan is a man of few words, rough around the edges, but he has a way of seeing through the complexities of the world, whittling them down to simple truths. He is what Scott needs.

Scott looks across the table to where Charles and Erik are sitting just in time to see Charles lean towards his husband and he watches as Erik laughs and says something. Charles blushes a little. Erik takes his napkin, uses it to wipe something from the corner of Charles’ mouth. Erik smiles, wide and deadly. They are sweet and tender. Scott glances over at Logan and finds the other man looking at him.

“I see what you mean,” Logan says, “They're sweet.”

Oh god. Another Charles and Erik fan is born. Of course. They are irresistible after all. Scott feels the slow creep of defeat. The world loves Charles and Erik. Logan loves Charles and Erik….

“Gives me a fucking toothache.”

Scott huffs out a laugh. His heart swells with gratitude as Logan sneers across the table.

“I may have thrown up in my mouth a little.”

Scott snorts loudly. The whole table turns to look at him just as Logan puts his arm around Scott’s broad shoulders and pulls him closer. Erik grins. Charles glowers. Sharon tips back her highball. Raven casts a maternal look their way. Scott can’t help the joy that wells up in him.

_Thank you universe._

He may have finally found his Erik.

**~fin~**


End file.
